


Getting Started

by unsettled



Series: Deep End [5]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Far From Home
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Cock & Ball Torture, Corset Piercings, Dirty Pictures, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Fear Play, Kinktober, M/M, Mistakes have been made, Needles, POV Quentin Beck, Sadism, Serious Consent Issues, also needles, he's drowning, if you have any issues with needles you DO NOT WANT to read this, it's the spiders all over again, needles needles needles, quentin is in so far over his head, seriously tony is not being responsible about this at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27240166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Quentin should have run the second Tony asked him how he felt about needles.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Tony Stark
Series: Deep End [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982066
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10
Collections: Unsettled's Kinktober 2020





	Getting Started

**Author's Note:**

> I think this can stand on its own, but it's better in the context of the rest of the series of course. 
> 
> Please forgive the mistakes I am sure are lurking! I desperately typed this to try and get something for Kinktober done. I will fix things (and add the rest) later.

Tony:  _ can you make yourself free tonight?  _

Tony:  _ all night _

Quentin stares at the text. There’s a presentation coming up, there’s reviews to finish, there’s always some sort of experiment he can run; it’d be easy to come up with an excuse why he can’t. 

Tony already knows all those things.

Quentin:  _ I’m free. _

Tony:  _ set things up to have tomorrow off too  _

Shit. What the fuck is he planning now? 

Quentin hesitates before he sends anything else. Types and erases several attempts— last time, he’d made the mistake of demanding dinner and not phrasing it well. He had not meant  _ but i demand to be fed first _ to mean literally being fed. 

In the end he just sends an acknowledgement and nothing more.

*

“So,” Tony says almost the instant Quentin’s in the door. “How do you feel about needles?”

“How do I feel?” Quentin says. “I… don’t feel? Am I supposed to have feelings about needles?”

“Are you one of those people that faint when you poke them?” Tony says. “Or have some phobia of them?”

Quentin does not like the sound of this. “Why do I have a feeling it’s not going to matter if I say yes?”

Tony grins, quick and bright and distressingly cheerful— he’s excited about this, Quentin realizes.  _ Shit. _

“Only in that I might change things a bit if you are,” Tony says. 

“I’m not.” 

“Great!” Tony says. “Now shoo, go lie on the bed. Naked, obviously,” like Quentin needed that pointed out. He doesn't like this at all. He likes it even less when Tony comes back with a whole tray of crap. 

“What—” Quentin starts, staring at the pile of needles on the tray.

“The plan,” Tony says, “is that I’m going to… decorate you. You’ll look exceptionally pretty, I’m sure.”

“And what do I get out of this?” He does not want to be fucking decorated, not if it’s with needles. Not if it’s going to hurt, and since it’s Tony— it’s going to hurt. 

Tony’s expression goes smug, darker. “You like people looking at you,” he says. “Like being shown off. When I’m done, I’m going to take some pictures and post them on a few particular sites. I bet you’ll break my record.”

Quentin stares at him, and he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to feel. “Don’t show my face,” he says, and it comes out hoarser than he meant. 

“Of course not,” Tony says. “Kind of a shame not to, but I’m not a complete asshole. I promise, no one will ever know it’s you. Well, except me.”

Why is he stalling? It’s not like he can stop this, can really change how it goes. “I don’t like pain,” he says. “Not like that, you know that.”

“Eh,” Tony says. “I don’t know how true that is— but it’s not going to hurt as much as you’re thinking. It’ll hurt, but you’re probably overestimating. And you’ll still get that little endorphin rush. I think you’re getting a lot out of this, actually.”

How is he supposed to argue with that? “Alright,” he says, and his stomach twists. 

Tony leans over him, flatten a hand on Quentin’s chest. “You’re going to have to be still,” he says. “Very still while I’m working. I don’t want to actually damage you. Can you, or do I need to tie you down?”

Quentin twitches at the thought; fuck no, he doesn’t want to be tied down for this. He already feels helpless enough. Can he be still enough? He has no idea, but he’s going to try. “You don’t have to tie me,” he tells Tony.

“Mmm, you’re going to be good?” Quentin closes his eyes. He hates that tone of voice, hates what it does to him. 

“Maybe,” he says. Tony likes that. 

Tony turns back to his tray and picks up something, probably a needle.”Tip your head back,” he says, tapping under Quentin’s chin. He runs a finger down the length of Quentin’s throat once it’s bared, and Quentin shivers. “I don’t want you to see what I’m doing,” Tony tells him. “It spoils the surprise if you can just look down and see what’s next.” Fuck, Quentin really does not like the sound of this. 

There’s a pinch at the top of his throat, just below his chin, and Quentin freezes. He feels like he can’t get in even half a breath, knows his eyes are wide, knows he’s staring at Tony and probably looks as terrified as he feels. Why did he agree to this, why didn’t he—

There’s another… not quite a pinch, or one that goes on, sharper and more painful and oh god, he can feel it as the needle slides under his skin, it’s awful. It hurts, but the hurt is almost second to the sick feeling of in his skin. 

“Perfect,” Tony says, running his fingers over where it’s buried in Quentin’s skin. “Want to see?”

“No,” Quentin whispers. 

“Your loss,” and Tony pinches another spot below the first. Quentin makes this— almost a whimper, this embarrassing sound that has Tony smirking. “Now now,” he says. “It didn’t hurt that bad, did it. I told you so.” 

There’s nothing he can do, Quentin tells himself, again. He closes his eyes and focuses on not moving as Tony works his way down his neck. There’s six of them by the time he slides the last in at the base of Quentin’s neck, resting on his collarbones. Tony was right about one thing; even if he can, Quentin does not want to look down at all. 

He swallows, and the sudden sharp pain of that pulling against each needle has him crying out, startled and  _ hurting. _ His eyes fly open and Tony— Tony is grinning, is looking perfectly pleased with how this is turning out. He runs his finger down that same line as before, slowly dragging it over each bump, each needle buried in him. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to stay still,” he says. “But I should have known better. Looks great, sweetheart. I’d say we’re off to a good start.”

No, no,  _ no. _

Quentin’s not even going to try and look down, so Tony gets exactly what he wants; Quentin overreacting to every touch, wondering if this one is going to be a needle, or this one, or this one— god, it’s awful. He can’t help the way he starts when Tony pinches his nipple, because if Tony puts a needle through that he’s going to scream. 

He doesn’t.

What he does do is almost worse, though Quentin can’t really compare and doesn’t want to be able to. Tony pinches a spot maybe an inch or so out from it and slides a needle in there, the tip almost touching it. “Goddammit,” Quentin hisses. “You’re an asshole.”

Tony just laughs. Sets another in his skin a little lower; Quentin barely suppresses his twitch and groans instead. “Bastard!”

“What, am I going to get called something for each one?” Tony says, and he sounds happy about it, fucking sadist. “I like this game,” and he sticks another in. 

“Motherfucker,” Quentin snaps. 

There’s… six? Seven? Too many, and it feels like a whole palm sized part of his chest is numb and on fire at the same time. Stinging and aching and then Tony— Tony goes around and fucking taps each one, pushing them further in little by little until the tip of each is pressing into his nipple. Not piercing it, no, just enough to feel but fuck, he knows that is going to get him eventually. 

Quentin should have known Tony would go and do the same damn thing to his other nipple. “I hate you,” Quentin tells him, and he means it.

“I bet you do,” Tony says. “Does that count as name calling?”

By the time the last one is stuck in him, Quentin’s run out of things to call Tony that aren’t repeats. He can’t  _ think. _ He’s breathing hard, the effort of not moving getting to him. It’s harder and harder with each needle, the pain multiplying, sure, but the anticipation, knowing where each one is going to go— that’s what makes it the worst because he’s not just trying to stop the flinch of pain, he’s trying to stop the flinch before it happens. 

Tony brushes his thumb across each nipple, gently, just a barely there touch. Even that much moves it though, pressing it harder into those needle tips just waiting to hurt. Quentin swallows, groans at that too. 

Groans louder when Tony leans down and puts his mouth over the tip of one, sucking on it and pulling it up, every point stabbing into Quentin and the skin pulling tight where the needles lie. “Oh god,” Quentin gasps. “Fuck, Tony— Tony!”

He can’t stay completely still at that, one hand coming up and grabbing Tony’s arm hard, his legs jerking and almost kicking Tony. Tony pulls away, but it doesn’t help at all; the way things are arranged, the tips of the needles have caught, are keeping his nipple pulled tight, pierced all around it. Quentin closes his eyes, starts shaking as he waits for Tony to turn to the other. 

“Fuck,” Tony says, his voice rough. “Look at you, already all fucked up. I’m going to ruin you.”

Quentin opens his eyes, looking up at him, thinking maybe he’ll beg, maybe he’ll argue, maybe something he can do will sway Tony— but there’s blood on Tony’s lip. “Shit,” Quentin whispers, and he doesn’t know for sure if it’s Tony’s or his. Or both. “Tony— there’s blood.”

Tony wipes his thumb over his lip, smearing it as he wipes most of it away. “I know,” he says. “Don’t worry, I already had you tested; you’re fine.”

When the  _ fuck _ did he do that, Quentin wonders, because he sure doesn’t remember getting a blood draw. “Yeah,” he says, “well what about you?”

“It’s fine,” Tony says again, dismissively. Flicks that same nipple and Quentin loses track of whatever he was going to say entirely. 

There’s some small mercy that Tony doesn’t go for his other nipple, but that probably just means he has something worse planned for it. Instead, he draws his hands down Quentin’s sides, too lightly, Quentin’s stomach tensing as he tries not to move; it fucking tickles. “Mmm,” Tony says, “not there. What about—” and he moves his hands a little higher, repeating the movements until he hits a spot that doesn’t make Quentin shiver. Why would Quentin’s body betray him like that? All of it should be off limits if the opposite means  _ needles. _

They actually don’t hurt nearly as much, the needles that Tony stacks down his abdomen and stomach, almost to the top of his thigh. They sting, and they do hurt, but nothing like the others. Maybe he’s desensitized to it already? 

Or maybe not, because he groans and has to grit his teeth when Tony runs his fingers over them, runs them back up along the plastic ends, tugging at all of them. He toys with them, pushing and pulling at some, flicking others, twisting a couple. Quentin hates the noises coming out of him at every torment, how they’ve risen into whines and whimpers, sharp, desperate. 

They hurt even more when he starts trying to calm himself by taking deeper breaths, slower breaths; the extra movement tugs his skin tight around them, sending lines of pain radiating out from the full length of his torso. “Fuck,” he whispers. 

And then; “Tony,” barely a sound, small and shocked, as Tony gets a grip on Quentin’s cock and Quentin hears him pick up a needle. “Tony!”

“Shhh,” Tony says, stoking across the tip of his cock, like that’s supposed to make anything better. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

“It’s my fucking cock,” Quentin chokes out. 

“Yeah it is,” Tony says, smug as hell. “Oh, it’s going to hurt, baby. But it’s not going to be the worst thing you’ve ever felt, and after— you’ll look so good and I’ll be so pleased with you.”

Quentin does not fucking care. “Tony,” he repeats, because he can’t think of anything else, can’t think of something that might stop him. “Please, I can’t—”

“You always say that,” Tony says, dragging his fingers down Quentin’s cock, and it’s barely hard now. “But it always turns out that you can. Haven’t I been right so far?”

“Please,” Quentin whispers.

“You have to be very, very still for this,” Tony says. “Even more so. Okay?”

No, not okay, not okay, please— 

Oh god, it  _ hurts. _

He finds he’s keening without even realizing it, tears springing instantly to his eyes. It hurts, it hurts it hurt it hurts—

There’s more than one, more than two, more than he count, lines of agony down either side of his cock, Tony handling it carefully as he pushes each one in, slowly, and Quentin doesn’t know if that’s supposed to make it better or worse. He has to stop, he has to, it’s going to stop, please—

“There you go,” Tony says softly. “Perfect; you didn’t move a bit. Well, not where it mattered,” because yeah, Quentin’s hands have been clenching in the sheets, but does that really fucking count? “Fuck, I can’t wait to get you hard again. You think it hurts now—” he laughs. Why does he think that will make Quentin want to get hard? If he even can, how could he possibly. 

“Now, one more spot,” Tony says, reaching down and pulling Quentin’s balls up. Quentin just squeezes his eyes shut, tears dripping down the sides of his face. Those don’t hurt near as much as the ones in his cock, but he doesn’t know if anything will ever hurt as much as them. 

Tony tugs at them, very gently and still too much by far. Keeps tugging, moving up, and Quentin realizes there’s something else there, something brushing against his skin that he can’t make sense of. Something that’s— that catching the needles in his cock and the needles on his sides, pulling them towards each other and keeping them like that, holding tension. 

“God,” Tony whispers once it feels like he’s done. He leans down, pressing a kiss against Quentin’s stomach. “You look incredible. I could get off just looking at you like this. Kinda want to just pull you back over the side of the bed and fuck your throat so I can get the best of both.” 

He moves, and Quentin fucking whimpers at the thought that he’s going to do it, going to choke Quentin on his cock while he looks at Quentin spread out like this— fuck, what is it going to feel like with those needles in his neck?

It doesn’t come though; he hears Tony moving around, doing something. Coming back and pulling at Quentin’s legs, shifting him around a little. What— 

There’s a faint noise, muffled. A familiar noise. 

He’s taking the pictures. 

There’s something— something wrong with Quentin. Something seriously wrong. Something that might start to explain why he keeps saying yes to Tony, because the thought of that—that there are pictures of this, of him, that they’re going to be seen by other people—it has something flipping in his stomach. Is making him flush, is making him— well, not hard, but his body is at least considering it. 

“Quentin,” Tony says. “Open your eyes.” 

When he does, the phone is right in front of them. The picture of himself is right in front of them. “Jesus,” he whispers. 

The needles at his neck are perfectly aligned, perfectly spaced out, untipped silver piercing through his skin. Clean, almost unreal like they’re just decoration, not needles at all. The ones at his nipples aren’t clean at all; they’re still spaced out just right, a wheel of black plastic tips around the dark red of his nipples, but—the one Tony had abused, at least—there’s blood staining the needles, spread out on his skin. Messy. A blot on the canvas. 

But the ones— the— the something Tony had been messing with was cord, thin red satiny cord that’s wrapped around the base of needles along his sides and on his cock. Crisscrossing between them, lacing them together and trapping his dick underneath those red lines. 

It kind of is pretty. Not nearly pretty enough to justify how much he’s hurting right now, but—

“They are going to love you,” Tony murmurs. “Should I post some now? See how many reactions you get by the time I’m done with you?”

“You’re not done with me?” Quentin says. 

“Oh no,” Tony says. “I’m just getting started.” 


End file.
